


Keep Me From Sin

by mrasaki



Category: Chocolat (2000)
Genre: Blasphemy, M/M, Meta, UST, pseudo-philosophy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-06-07
Updated: 2009-06-07
Packaged: 2017-10-07 06:01:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/62117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrasaki/pseuds/mrasaki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“It has been sixteen years and four months since I’ve last been to confession or even darkened the door of a church, Pere, and yet here I am.” Roux made a sweeping motion encompassing the church and the yard, then a flicker of a sardonic smile. “Because of Mademoiselle Rocher’s chocolaterie.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Keep Me From Sin

The moss was damp against the hardness of the worn stone against his back, chill against the warmth of the sun. Days like this were rare this early in the spring, and was a gift from God during the dreary days of Lent.

Ooh. That might be a good metaphor for his Easter sermon, Henri thought, and shuffled in his pockets. He found a pencil, but his battered notebook unavailed. Where had he left it? Perhaps inside by the altar, when he’d been cleaning behind the pulpit? He got up, brushing haplessly at the grass stains on his bottom, and then noticed the lean man watching him from the church door.

He started, and had to catch at the stone wall to steady himself. When he looked up again, the man was standing right next to him, and he started again. Quiet as a cat, he’d been. The man was studying him with some amusement in his eyes. “High-strung, aren’t you, Pere?” he asked, the gleam of a gold-capped tooth showing through his parted lips. Henri had to tear his eyes away from it. The questionable teeth, the disheveled hair, sun-dark skin, the lean, almost malnourished figure, no wonder that strange girl of Mademoiselle Rocher’s had thought him a pirate.

He cleared his throat and drew himself up. “What can I do for you, Monsieur…?”

“Ah, just Roux.” A short bow, but no offer of a hand. An ever-present awareness of his lower social status in that, and Henri withdrew his own hand hastily, a blush heating his cheeks. Impulsive. He was always so impulsive, why? “Roux,” he said quickly.

“Lovely little church you have here,” Roux said, his dark eyes sweeping over the ivy-covered walls of the tiny church, then over the even tinier cemetery, and Henri’s first amateur attempts at a vegetable garden. It wasn’t much of one, mostly stunted and yellowed.

“Ah—yes—well, I received it after Pere Michel passed on.” And the knowing eyes looked at him, into him, and what was unsaid was understood: _And it was given to you by the good graces of the mayor Monsieur le Comte_. Who also happened to be Henri’s mother’s uncle, and who never let him forget who had given him such a lucrative placement. He squirmed.

“You’re full young to have the responsibility for the _entire_ town, no?” Flippantly, and Henri drew himself up again in indignation but then deflated as Roux walked away from him towards the garden. “What’s this, tomatoes?” Henri trailed after him. “A bit early for them, isn’t it?”

“Is it?” Henri didn’t know. That _would_ explain why they hadn’t grown and were now looking rather sorry for themselves. But—but—“_Look_, Monsieur, if there’s nothing I can help you with, I have much to d—”

Roux turned. “There _is _something. Unless, of course, you don’t have time to help a river rat?” Watching him with those black, black eyes. Unreadable.

“I—I—what? I—_no, _ I mean,” he lapsed, once again red. Only the Comte had such an effect on him, and to meet someone _else_ who exuded such an aura of self-assurance and command, was daunting. But Monsieur Roux was quiet and silken-toned where the Comte was imperious, but both were…austere, in their own ways. “I mean. Yes, of course, I am ready to help _all _of God’s children in any way I can.”

The gleam of gold appeared again. “Good. I wanted to speak to you about Vivienne’s chocolaterie.”

“Mademoiselle Rocher?”

“The same.”

“I—well, it’s _Lent_. A time of _abstinence_. And _reflection_. And a chocolaterie is, well, _inappropriate_, don’t you think?”

“Did Jesus ever say no to chocolate?”

“Wh—_no_, but—did chocolate even _exist_ back then?” He caught himself. “I mean, Lent isn’t just about chocolate, it’s about purifying yourself of material desires. Purifying your body and mind in preparation for the resurrection of the Lord and the salvation of the soul. It—what are you doing?” for Roux was close once again to him, close enough so he could feel Roux’s breath.

“Go on,” Roux said. “It’s interesting.”

“Er. And—and—yes, um, this is the season to put the self aside to welcome God into your h-heart.” He stuttered to a stop, entirely discomfited, and it occurred to him that if Monsieur le Comte happened to walk into the courtyard that moment and saw him talking to one of the gypsy people, he’d almost certainly have an apoplectic fit and lecture Henri for hours about the serious responsibility of his duty to the town, to the church and to the mayor. And _not_ to godless, shiftless heathens who trawled the waterways of France.

But didn’t the Lord love _all_ his children?

“So Mademoiselle Rocher’s chocolaterie induces people to temptation and sin?”

“Yes.” He nodded emphatically.

“It has been sixteen years and four months since I’ve last been to confession or even darkened the door of a church, Pere, and yet here I am.” Roux made a sweeping motion encompassing the church and the yard, then a flicker of a sardonic smile. “Because of Mademoiselle Rocher’s chocolaterie.”

“I—okay?”

“It may have been a very long time since I was a wee lad, taking my First Communion, but I don’t remember anything in the Bible saying that people had to give up the small pleasures in life for Jesus’ sake.” He was closer again, close enough for Henri to see the corded muscle of his arms exposed by the shabby fabric of his shirt, the sunburned stretch of neck, and the sharp, almost alien angles of chin and cheekbones. Henri dragged his eyes away, and tried to concentrate on the argument at hand. Had he ever thought he’d be having a theological debate with a _gypsy_? Somehow this eventuality hadn’t ever come up in seminary. “The Bible shouldn’t be read in such a literal way!” he protested. “The life and teachings of Jesus are interpreted for us by the apostles, the rock upon which the Church was built, Saint Peter—”

“Funny that so much trouble is caused by the interpretation of a fallible man who denied Jesus’s friendship three times and a man who didn’t know Jesus personally and murdered Christians wholesale until God struck him down in the road.” Roux smiled humorlessly. “How do we know they didn’t completely misunderstand the Lord’s message?”

“That’s blasphemy!” Henri exclaimed, shocked. He stared at him and fought down the urge to flee into the church. “Saint Peter and Paul were _chosen_ by the Lord to carry on his messa—”

“You know, Vivienne doesn’t know I’m here,” Roux said quietly, almost into his ear. He’d moved so quickly, so silently yet again, and Henri froze at the scent of the man, of musk and river but not of earth. “But I came anyway. I had a feeling you would be one of the few who would be willing to speak to someone like me.” His dark eyes caught Henri’s, so close, and he spat, “a river rat,” like a curse. Then, “Or even to talk about theology with one.”

“What do you want?” Henri breathed, swallowing around a dry throat. He was dimly aware that he was being backed into the wall of the church, and then he felt the cool rustle of ivy around him.

“Two things,” Roux said, still so jarringly close; Henri had not had anyone so invasive of his personal space since…since he’d still lived with his parents and his two brothers, before he’d given himself to the Church. “I won’t ask you to stop preaching against the chocolaterie. But I will ask you to _think_ about what it is you are preaching. And whose words you are using instead of your own. After all, who does it hurt to have a little chocolate now and again?”

Poison, his words were poison. He’d been trained in seminary to address such faults in reasoning, but, in a small place in the back of his mind, a place that he’d had much practice ignoring, he thought, _that’s true_.

He pulled his whirling mind back to the present. “And the other thing?”  

Roux narrowed his eyes, and that only intensified the effect of his dark, dark—were they Spanish?—eyes, and Henri realized a split second before what was going to happen. He opened his mouth to protest that he was a _priest_, a priest of God, and he had a vow of celibacy to honor, and surely God would strike him down for the rush of heat that flooded to his face and to his groin at the nearness of _him_, a _man_, not a woman, who tempted him to comb his fingers through the stringy hair and test the texture of his lips with his own.

But Roux didn’t kiss him, didn’t grab him or ravish him—though Henri’s traitor mind, churning with new thoughts and sensations and the sharp, panting ache of want, pulsed with regret that his arms remained immobile at his side, torn between temptation and fulfillment. Want or guilt. Instead, Roux ran his fingers up along Henri’s thin cheek, just under his wide eyes, and smiled. “Nothing, Pere Henri,” he murmured. “Just—think about the words of Jesus, and the words of fallible men. They’re not always the same.” Then, leaning closer, “Nothing in the Gospel says that a priest can’t enjoy pleasure, either.”

He left Henri gasping in the ivy, and Henri watched him go out the little rusted side gate, taking that exotic aroma of river and foreign places and that enigmatic smile with him.

Henri barely made it into the confessional just inside the door of the church, and then he was warm, then hot, burning as he reached up under his cassock and though the layers of his robes. He’d touched himself before, secretly, in the night on his plain bed in his plain room and had accordingly done penance, but he had never been so desperate for this before, his breath coming short and suffocating. He took himself in hand and stroked himself roughly, biting his lip against the sensation and against the panting mewls he couldn’t control. And then dark gypsy eyes intruded behind his closed eyes, and he was coming hard, bracing himself against the opposite wall and feeling the spurt of warm fluid over his hand, and the decadent feel of it made him shudder.

*

_God, heavenly Father,_  
look upon me and hear my prayer  
during this holy Season of Lent.  
By the good works You inspire,  
help me to discipline my body  
and to be renewed in spirit.

Penance. Penance for his lustful thoughts, for his unclean actions. Prayers for peace for his turbulent mind, for the thoughts that came unbidden now, prayers for silencing the urgent questions about what he had been taught and what he’d previously thought was indisputable.

He thrashed on his bed, the part of his mind not so easily ignored anymore keeping him wide awake, and cursed the gypsy Roux, whom he hadn’t seen since except in glimpses about town, accompanied by an equally dark and slight girl. He ignored the restless, throbbing erection that lay against his belly.

Early the next morning, he crept up to the chocolaterie and looked with slightly horrified wonder at the luxuriant display of chocolate in the window. Truffles, fondants. Elaborately shaped chocolate seashells, rabbits, and chicks, tipped with white chocolate. An enormous chocolate cake covered in tantalizing, glistening raspberry glaze and dollops of vanilla cream. What looked like a lattice-crust pie. Could one really make _pie_ out of chocolate? He remained in front of the window in a daze until he noticed Mademoiselle Rocher waving at him invitingly, and he fled.

Now he knew how Adam and Eve had felt, after they’d eaten of the fruit of knowledge.

*

When the Monsieur le Comte interrupted him, Henri was nose-deep in several heavy volumes of great theological import discussing the differences in translation between succeeding versions of the Bible. At the mayor’s sharp knock at his open door, Henri started and guiltily shuffled his copy of Martin Luther’s Ninety-Five Theses under his other papers.

The mayor wasn’t looking well; he was less smartly dressed than usual and he seemed tired and harried. “You are not busy?” Reynaud asked him, and waited for Henri’s negative. Always ever so relentlessly proper. He waved at Henri to sit as he stumbled to his feet, then dropped into a chair himself. “Madame Rocher is having a pagan festival,” he said, sourly.

Henri blinked. He’d heard of this already from the ladies who filed regularly into Confession—he was _almost_ over blushing at the memory of what he’d done in there, but not quite—and who’d confessed to him in hushed tones the sin of _looking forward to it_. He’d sent them on their way with a few Hail Marys as penance. Pagan. He knew he should have been shocked, but the low, quiet voice in his memory had intruded and murmured, _Who does it hurt?_ “Oh? When?” he asked, innocently.

The mayor picked at some lint on his hat. “Easter.” His mouth pursed like he’d bitten into a lemon. “We have to talk about your Easter homily.” He reached for it.

Henri twitched it out of his grasp. “I—yes. Erm, I do believe—I’ve reviewed the changes that you’ve made, but, er, I’m sure there’s hardly any need for you to trouble yourself further.”

Reynaud must _really_ have been tired, because it took him a few moments before what Henri had said registered. Then he just sat and stared at Henri for a few moments, and Henri had time to wonder a little if he should be frightened at the crazed gleam in the mayor’s eyes, when Reynaud lunged over the desk with a yell and grabbed at the papers in Henri’s hand.

Henri snatched them back, and the papers crunched as they both pulled in opposite directions and Henri thought crazily that perhaps he’d be pulled over the desk into Reynaud’s lap; the mayor certainly had the advantage over Henri in weight if not height. But instead the papers tore into jagged halves, and they both fell back into their chairs, breathing heavily.

“I—” Reynaud said, then put one shaking hand to his forehead, and seemed to be struggling with something. Then, with an aborted, “I’m so sorry—” the mayor, whom Henri had never seen in _any_ other state other than strict control, wrenched himself up out of the chair and slammed out of the room in jerky movements.

Henri stared after him, then picked up the fallen remnants and smoothed them as best he could. The words were smudged and unreadable. Not that they’d been all that readable before, the mayor’s corrections and notes and wholesale rewriting in crabbed script along the margins and covering Henri’s own handwriting. The mayor had been particularly violent with his pen this time, slashing it across Henri’s words about God’s humanity, his kindness, his tolerance, and had particularly saved his vim for the paragraphs on how people couldn’t measure their goodness by what they didn’t do and how they denied themselves, but instead by inclusion, tolerance, and generosity.

The pages were ruined, and it was the night before Easter Sunday. There was no time to write a new sermon, but Henri smiled. He thought he could remember the important parts.

Sometimes indulgence wasn’t such a bad thing.

 

Fin

\--

Completed 06/06/09

The prayer is the “Lenten Prayer for Spiritual Renewal.” http://www.catholic.org/clife/prayers/prayer.php?p=790

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> In re-reading this fic, I've become aware that maybe a warning or two is in order for the content of the story. 
> 
> 1\. Roux is labeled as a 'gypsy' in the movie, and is thought of and addressed in light of the prejudices of the period. No slurs are used, and I hope things remained fairly innocuous.
> 
> 2\. For the Catholics out there -- there is some discussion of heretical ideas here, as well as the blatant seduction of a priest. Take that as you will. :)


End file.
